


No Pie At All

by kleine_aster



Category: Batman (Comics), Superman (Comics)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Awkward Sexual Situations, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Oral Sex, sex comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:39:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleine_aster/pseuds/kleine_aster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a visit to Metropolis, Bruce has to wrangle a horny Kryptonian as well as his own paranoid streak, and discovers that World’s Finest sex doesn’t equal world’s finest sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Pie At All

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** No Pie At All  
>  **Pairing:** Batman/Superman (or rather, Superman/Bruce Wayne if that makes sense)  
>  **Summary:** On a visit to Metropolis, Bruce has to wrangle a horny Kryptonian as well as his own paranoid streak, and discovers that World’s Finest sex doesn’t equal world’s finest sex.  
>  **Genre:** Sex Comedy, I guess XD  
>  **Warnings:** Awkward sex (Guys, I mean it). The views on homosexuality displayed here are kinda old-fashioned, which is on purpose. I got into Batman and Superman reading Bronze Age comics, so my view of them is always a little tinted by that.  
>  **Words:** 5,023  
>  **Universe:** Nothing specific, but they are both probably a little younger here (not teenagers, but not seasoned heroes either), which explains a lot of the cluelessness. Also Batman obviously doesn't have any green Kryptonite with him, or else he wouldn't be so worried.  
>  **Notes:** I always wanted to try this out because I think it's a lovely pairing. I guess this contains a lot of beats that are very typical for Superbat fics (like the good old "who tops" chestnut), but hey, I hope it's at least amusing! I took some inspiration from Larry Niven's hilarious/alarming essay "Man Of Steel, Woman Of Kleenex". Bruce is the Kleenex. No worries, though, nobody gets gored/dies. :)  
>  Superman was totally my childhood hero (I think I loved him before I loved the Bat), so writing slash with him was a pretty lulzy experience.

The Dark Knight lets it go on for a while, then he says, "Wait. Stop."

And Superman does.

Good to know.

He stops at once; stops pinning him to the bed by his wrists, stops slamming his hips into him in that clueless, but increasingly urgent manner. He also stops showering his neck with kisses and groaning his name (in this case, "Batman", because they don't know each other that well otherwise and it's awkward); which is regrettable, because Bruce had quite liked that.

The man who calls himself Clark Kent, but is neither actually Clark Kent nor merely a man, looks down at him with concern. His face is flushed, which is a rare sight to see.

"Is something wrong," he breathes, and it's sincere, but there's an undercurrent of raw greed in his voice that Bruce has never heard from him before. His clear blue eyes look clouded, dazed; it's almost like when he's being mind-controlled, and also not at all like that. This is something different; this is all him. No matter how much misery he's endured and how mature he's become, Superman has never quite stopped looking like a fresh-faced, smooth-cheeked country boy, and he probably never will; but despite that, despite that inherent sweetness, he has the most intense _Oh it's ON_ -face that Bruce has ever seen. He's aware that, however it happened, they've broken some sort of threshold, here. Superman is locking eyes with him as if he wants to eat him alive.

Bruce isn't used to be getting that look. _He_ is the one giving others that look. But then, it's not often that he ends up on his back with his legs spread, either. 

He is not sure what to think about that. All he knows is that his pulse rate is out of control right now.

He stares up at the other man, unblinking. "There's something I have to tell you," he says earnestly. His gruff voice is unsteady and his lips are sore from the kissing. Being kissed by Superman is enticing, but it's also not unlike making out with a steamroller. "I … have never done this before."

Superman's face lights up at that, and Bruce can see something like relief flash across his features. He looks so happy for a moment. "Me neither," he blurts out, eagerly, "All my life, I've never – "

Bruce clears his throat. "With a _man_ ," he specifies, "What I meant to say is, I've never been with another _man_."

"Oh." The blush on Superman's face deepens. "Of course. You're … I mean, yes. That's … that's what I meant as well."

Bad liar. He's such a bad liar.

Charming.

Bruce licks his lips, contemplating what to do next. He can see Clark following the movement with keen interest, so he rises up to flick his tongue across his mouth, feels him squirm, listens to him moan. The other man rocks against him, his entire body – and that is a lot of body – exuding heat. Superman, Clark, he likes to be touched. He likes it a lot. Probably doesn't happen to him that often. 

Bruce needs to get his head straight, which is not easy, with his nether regions acting up like that. But if he's going to take the full brunt of twenty years of Kryptonian sexual repression, he needs a few precautions. He is no fool. He is very aware that this whole endeavor could take a nasty, potentially lethal left turn at any minute, whether the man on top of him intends it or not. Which isn't even a question, really; he has no doubts that the Man Of Steel doesn't _intend_ to kill him with his massive, desperately erect penis, but it remains a very real possibility that he _could_. Bruce Wayne knows sex, he's had plenty of it, and he knows that it's pretty much wall-to-wall muscle spasms and involuntary movement, at least if you're doing it right. They could be inches away from the headline 'Billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne massacred in unspecified hilarious sex accident', and Batman has a long list of things he wishes to accomplish before he'd even consider leaving this world.

He feels oddly fragile in these arms. Part of him wants to give in to that, that feeling, and another part of him wants to resist it. Could be self-preservation; could be stupid pride. It doesn't help that Superman looks at him as if he _was_ fragile. Protective. Possessive. It's like looking into a mirror, only that there's a warmth there that Bruce lacks. 

It's so _strange_.

And now Superman is caressing his cheek like he's some delicate flower, and it feels nicer than it should. "Having second thoughts?" He asks meekly, in a voice that says _Please say no?_

"How is this going to work?" Bruce inquires. It's not a rhetorical question. He truly wants to know.

Superman looks uncertain for a moment, but then he chuckles, a smile melts across his features, and it's a very Clark Kent-like thing to do as he leans down and sheepishly admits, "I have _no_ idea."

"Get off me," Batman says.

Superman lets out an unwilling groan, but then he rolls off of him, propping himself up on one elbow to look at him attentively. The self-restraint is truly remarkable, since his hard member is still angrily poking holes into the air. If Lois Lane and Vicki Vale could have seen them now, they would have probably fainted, but not before taking at least 25 pictures each.

And then, of course, Batman would have had to kidnap them both and tinker with their minds until they forgot they ever saw anyth – 

Superman is _still_ giving him that smoldering look.

Bruce sits up and decides to cover his own raging erection with a pillow. It seems more prudent that way. A second later, it occurs to him that if he wanted to, Superman could still see it, anyway. The fact that he's looking at Bruce's face while he talks to him is another testament to his decency.

"I _do_ know," Superman tells him. Even like this, majestic, bare-chested, pantsless and aroused, he still looks … lovely. Endearing. Damn it, he looks _adorable_. 

It's distracting. "Excuse me?" Bruce growls, disgruntled.

"How it works." The tall Kryptonian looks downright flustered. "Technically. I'm an avid student of the human body, so naturally I also know of the multiple ways bodies can … fit together – " He takes one look at the naked Bat and loses his train of thought. He makes an absent-minded gesture like he's pushing up his glasses, even though he's not wearing them. "I'm sure you do, too …"

"I do." And that's the point. Well, one of them, anyway. It's probably good to lead off with _'We're the same sex'_ as opposed to _'We're not the same species'_. It's a lot to get through.

"Like I said, I don't have previous experience," Bruce continues, "But as far as I understand it, one of us will have to be the …"

It gives him pause. How do you _call_ that? Bruce is familiar with homoerotic relations, at least in theory, and he's always had an interest in it. But it's not something he allows himself to think about, frequently, or talk about, ever.

The _woman_?

No … that seems antiquated. And silly.

"… the …"

Superman is hanging on his lips. 

"… the one who receives." Bruce finishes awkwardly, and frowns at his own clumsy wording.

The Man Of Steel looks way too intrigued by that whole concept. "I suppose," he agrees, his eyes narrow and focused. Bruce shoots him a wary look. "And I can't shake the feeling that you assume it's going to be me," he points out sharply.

There's a bout of embarrassed silence, from both directions; it lasts for nearly a minute.

"Bruce," Superman finally says, and it's so affectionate, so intimate that it makes him cringe. But in a way that's not entirely unpleasant. "May I call you Bruce?"

The Dark Knight arches a brow. That question seems obsolete now, after they've ripped each other's suits off and Superman has spent the last five minutes attempting to mount him in some fashion. But it's very polite, admittedly. "You may."

"All right. Bruce, I don't _assume_ anything." He runs his fingers through his sleek black hair, mussing up that single, quirky lock that makes him look so harmless, even if in reality he can take an entire train compartment and twist it into a pretzel. It's disarming, really. "When I brought you here, I wouldn't have even dreamed – I mean, in case you haven't noticed, I didn't … exactly plan for this to happen." He gives him a coy smile, but then it falters, and his eyes narrow again. "Wait. Did _you_ plan for this to happen? You're good at these things – "

"No. Yes. Yes, I am good at these things. No, I didn't plan for this."

"Ah." Superman looks almost disappointed. He tilts his head. "Because I want to point out, that if you did … I'm fine with it."

Bruce can't help but crack half a smile at that.

It's true, however. None of this has been planned. It was supposed to be the usual exchange of niceties after surviving another potentially world-ending catastrophic event together. Superman had accompanied him back to his Metropolis safe house, and then there'd been the traditional shaking of hands, the "I respect you"s, the "You humble me" – "No, you humble _me_ ", a few "Dark Knight"s and "Boy Scout"s being traded, and the "I was really sad when I thought you'd died"-bit … the kinds of tender, dramatic outpourings that really only happened with Superman. And then, a strange mood had taken over. It was the kind of mood where Bruce would usually excuse himself from his lady date, and then put on some smooth jazz and return with the first few buttons of his shirt undone and a bottle of champagne. But of course, that's not quite how it went with Superman.

There'd been a long, meaningful pause, a few deep looks, some deep breaths, and then … and then they'd went at each other like _animals_.

Like some part of them had waited for an opening, a chance for this to happen ever since they'd met.

It had almost been like a competition in the beginning. Who'd be the first to sweep the other one off his feet, who'd be the first to slam the other on the desk in a fit of passion, who'd be the first to hump the other into a wall, the first to swoop the other up into the air to kiss under the ceili – fine, that last part hadn't been a real competition; Superman had clearly won that one.

Still, Bruce hadn't become fully aware of the power imbalance until Superman had enthused, "I want to see you naked," and then he'd been naked in _under four seconds_ (which again proved how smart Superman was, since removing the Batsuit was not an easy feat).

Then he'd flung him on to the bed, which had been on the opposite side of the room, and landed on top of him the next moment, at which point Bruce had felt compelled to call a time-out.

He looks down at his own thigh, which is already starting to bruise where the other man has touched him. If he's unlucky, he'll get a hematoma that's the exact shape and size of Superman's hand.

Clark has powered down, like he's asked him to. But there's a low, needy hum coming from his lips as Bruce traces a finger over his throat, his perfectly sculpted chest, his abdomen, and then further down to where the trail of hair begins. Dark, wet curls. It's the only place on him where he has hair other than his head. Superman's hips shiver in his direction, inviting him, but he doesn't go there, not yet.

"Maybe if I could restrain you," Bruce ponders, without looking at him. He's not as decent as Clark is; he finds himself unable to stop looking at his extraterrestrial penis. "With a material that would serve to hold you without actually doing you any harm, but also constricted involuntary movement. Maybe then I could – "

_Sit on it_

He shudders and stops himself, shocked by how much he wants to try it.

"Yes," Superman perks up at that. He sounds breathless. "That might work! And if anyone could design those restraints, it would be us!"

"You …" Bruce finally looks back at his face, stunned. "You'd let me _bind_ you?"

Superman shrugs his enormous shoulders. "Why not? I trust you."

And now it's Bruce's turn to blush violently. His mouth dries up completely, and he realizes that with this short, simple admission, Superman has just managed to get him even harder, which he hadn't thought possible. His dick is straining against the pillow that he's still covering himself with.

"I – well," he knows he should probably stop discussing this, but now it's there, in his head, and the thoughts won't stop coming. "The challenge, of course, would be to find a surface that'll be strong enough to contain you when I tie you to it, and then – "

"You're beautiful," Superman interrupts him, dreamily.

Bruce awkwardly stops describing his bondage scenario with his hands and falls silent. 

He's said 'beautiful'. Not 'handsome', not 'good-looking' or something else that you'd say to a man. _Beautiful._

"It's just," Superman looks bashful, which is a good look for him. "Even before I knew what your face looked like, I always just thought you were so beautiful. Strong. Fearless. I mean, you _do_ seem a little nervous now, which is ador-… understandable, but I just … I think you're wonderful, that's all." He lowers his gaze. "I mean, I'm sorry. Please continue."

The Bat stares at him.

_Yeah. I adore you, too._

He wants to say something that's as … sweet, but he doesn't know how. He can gush at his gala dates all day (and all night) long, but this is different. More revealing.

"You're …"

The truth is, Bruce Wayne is a sucker for flawless designs, always has been, it doesn't matter if its gadgets, or cars, or architecture or a work of art. And Superman, while not man-made, is the epitome of that. There's something symmetrical, streamlined, achingly effortless about him, and it makes Bruce nervous and angry and it drives him up the wall. It makes him feel like a plump, battered old warhorse, and he isn't even that old. Yet, he feels himself drawn to it, probably in the way all nocturnal winged creatures are drawn to powerful sources of light.

"You're … perfection," he says quietly, which doesn't even begin to cover it.

"Oh," Superman says. He sounds a little sad, and Bruce realizes that he hears that all the time. 

So he leans in to kiss him again; perhaps that'll communicate it better.

Superman outright _swoons_ into the kiss with a longing sigh, like he's waited a long time for it, and in a matter of seconds they're deep-tonguing each other again, competing over who can cup the other man's face with more purpose. But despite the passion, there's something carefully controlled in the way Superman is kissing him. He lets it deepen to a certain point, then pulls back again. If he didn't, he could easily knock out his teeth, crush his windpipe, suck all the air out of his lungs. But he doesn't.

"Isn't that hard for you," Bruce rasps when their wet lips part again, "Holding back all the time?"

" _Very_ hard," Superman confirms huskily, and he can feel him smile against his cheekbone, "But tell me, Bruce, what's better? Having a small slice of pie, or having no pie at all?"

"Did you … did you just liken me to a pie … ?"

The taller man simply grins at him instead of answering. And then, he lies down on his back, giving Bruce's hand a gentle tug. "Batman," he says, and somehow that's even _more_ intimate because that's how they truly know each other, "Get on top of me."

That invitation knocks the remaining breath out of his lungs. His heart starts racing uncontrollably. The desire grows so strong it almost feels like rage, which is the strongest emotion Bruce knows apart from grief. His hands almost shake a little when he bends down to part the other man's legs, which open for him without hesitation. He slides between those smooth, toned thighs, and the strongest man in the world lets him. He's not tense, he's not afraid. His breath only hitches when Bruce hits that spot that must be his entrance, way down there. He looks up at him, biting his lip.

And it's easily one of the top three _best things_ Bruce has ever seen.

"How does it feel," Superman teases when he sees the look on his face. He runs his big, warm hands down Bruce's scarred back until he's cupping his ass, and gives him a heartfelt squeeze that makes him shiver. "It feels really nice, doesn't it."

Bruce can only muster a sub-human grunt in response, but that probably says it all.

Superman smiles at that, and then lets out a small, mournful sigh. "Now unfortunately," he says, "I'm not sure if I can be penetrated, so I wouldn't advise you to try."

Bruce blinks at him. "I … wasn't going to," he declares, which is about 50% accurate.

"You see, the strength and resilience of my muscles, _all_ my muscles, is such that if they convulse, there's a certain risk they'd snap right through any intruding – "

"I understand," Bruce hurries to say, before the terrifying image can cost him his erection. Though it doesn't seem as if _anything_ could bring his boner down at this point.

For what it's worth, Superman looks as frustrated as he feels. "There's also a possibility that it _doesn't_ happen, of course" he tells him, and the way he looks up at him his lovely, "But … I feel like we shouldn't, not right away. But we – "

He stops talking and lets out a soft, startled noise when Bruce gives him an angry thrust. That's the point he is at now; he can't go back. He doesn't attempt to enter him, but as long as he can keep thrusting _against_ him like that, against this warmth, this heat, it should be enough, it should … it should … and it feels …

He closes his eyes and moans.

When he opens them again, he sees Superman smirk at him. "Yeah," he breathes, and Bruce is reminded that even Superman can occasionally be cheeky, "I was about to suggest exactly that."

"Nhn."

Now the other man is downright beaming at him. "You look insane right now," he mutters, and there's something really _loving_ about it, "Don't stop."

He doesn't.

Superman's hands are still on his ass, and he nudges him forward, edges him on to take his pleasure, and all he can do is melt into it. Superman's entire body is hard, but his flesh is soft, and after all the clumsiness that preceded it, the friction that their bodies create is _maddening_. Bruce throws his head back and groans. He nearly breaks his fingers attempting to dig them into Superman's hips. It doesn't work, but that doesn't stop him from trying, clawing at him with needy, slippery hands while he rolls his hips up against him. Somewhere in the back of his fevered mind, he wonders if this is even fun for his … partner. But from the deep flush in Superman's cheeks, the sweat gleaming on him, the open-mouthed panting, and the way he wraps his legs around him now, those powerful legs that could snap Bruce in half if he isn't careful – 

He tenses. "D-don't do that – "

"Bruce," Superman takes his face in his hands, giving him a reproachful but also very horny look, and then a lick across the nose, "Trust me at least a _little_ , will you."

He's right; and the added pressure doesn't make it worse, it makes it _better_. Bruce can't stop himself from moving and oh god he's _pummeling_ him now, with a brutality that he wouldn't even attempt with anybody else. He's half ashamed at how frenzied and obscene his movements are, but he has no room for shame now. It almost feels like he's really inside him, _taking_ him, and somehow, the fact that he isn't, that small piece that is missing makes the tension run even higher. Clark arches up against him and calls out his name (this time, it's 'Bruce'), and from there on out, it's all muscle spasms and involuntary movement as Bruce completely loses it.

It's such a rush that he doesn't even realize he's coming until he's right in the middle of it, when he can't stop twitching and everything goes very limp and very wet.

As it turns out, Superman is a very good surface to lie on when no part of your body is responding to your brain anymore.

"Ha," the Man Of Steel intones, while Bruce is spread out on top of him trying to breathe, "I thought you might like that, but you _really_ liked that."

Bruce raises his head and gives him a glassy stare, which is all he feels capable of. Superman seems a little smug, and Bruce remembers that this is his first time doing this. He also notices that he's still rock-hard.

This won't do. A good man doesn't leave his friend hanging.

The smirk vanishes from Superman's face and is replaced by a look of nervous apprehension when Bruce crawls between his legs and makes a fist around the shaft of his cock. Despite that, it's obvious he's thrilled that someone's touching him there. Or perhaps that _Bruce_ is touching him there.

"Superman," he growls, moving his hand slowly, tentatively. "Tell me something – "

" _Clark_ , please," the other man sighs, while his loins are stirring. "You can ask me whatever you want, but please call me Clark, it's more – … keep doing that."

Bruce does it harder, and tilts his head. "This'll sound strange, and I mean no offense," he informs him. There's no polite way to ask, so he'll simply put it out there. 

"Your discharge," he says bluntly, looking straight at Clark while he's stroking him, "Exactly how forceful is it?"

He can't tell what's more fascinating; the thing his hand is doing or the look of impatience, confusion and mild embarrassment that Clark gives him. "Oh boy, are you _asking_ me that?"

"You said I could. It's important." Bruce licks his lips and looks down at it. It looks exactly like a dick is supposed to look and it feels exactly like a dick is supposed to feel, and that's reassuring and inviting. He can't resist. He leans down, covers the tip with his mouth, and gives it a long, hard suck that prompts Superman to make that strained noise that he usually makes when he's lifting a tanker.

"Oh god," he hisses, and there's that sweet, pure, nervous excitement that only virgins display when they realize that _this is happening_ , " _Oooh_ , Batman, Bruce, no-one's ever done that for me before – " And then he rips a part of the mattress right out because he's grabbing it so hard. 

Bruce is glad it wasn't his scalp. He eyes him with grim determination. "Ballpark, Clark. Your orgasm. Is it like I was a minute ago, or is it more like a bullet speeding out of a pistol? I need to know."

Superman looks as tortured as if they were doing it on a bed of Kryptonite, but Bruce can see that he really, sincerely wants to answer his question, because he's a sweetheart like that. "S-somewhere in between, I guess?" He estimates. "But … it's closer to you than to a speeding bullet," he says quickly when he sees Bruce's consternated face. "I swear. I wouldn't lie about this. Really."

Well, that makes sense. Superman probably wouldn't want their first night together to end with a traumatic injury, either, especially since it's his first time with anybody. He's probably telling the truth – 

And apart from that, Bruce really wants to put that inside him again.

"Good enough," he mutters. "Do not move."

Then he dives down again, granting him access to his slick, wet mouth.

He can't fit him in entirely; he's never done this before and he can't deep-throat (it's something he could probably figure out in the future, but it'll take practice), but he gives as good as he can. Clark has been gracious to him and he's determined to give something back, and so he teases him, sucks him, licks him, even nibbles at him a little once he's realized that he likes it. And Clark, stalwart as he is, seriously tries not to move at first, but of course he does, he writhes and twists and moans. After a while, Bruce stops slapping away his hand when he tries to play with his hair, and when he finally grabs him by the neck, he lets him do that, too.

He'll be damned if he can't give a man who's saved so many lives some decent head.

Like before, he gets so caught up in it that he doesn't hear Clark's gasped warning, at all, and he only realizes that it's over when his mouth fills up with semen and he starts choking on it.

Superman collapses with a deep, pleasured groan, and Batman collapses into a coughing fit.

He topples over on all fours, retching. This is really not the image he wants to present to a sex partner, much less one whose respect means the world to him, but he cannot help it, he can't breathe, it's _so deep_ in his throat. It wasn't as forceful as a speeding bullet, nothing's perforated, but it's been forceful enough.

His eyes are watering, so he can't really see much, but he can hear how Superman tosses away the bedpost he's torn off in the heat of the moment. And then he's kneeling next to him, softly patting his back, whispering "Batman? Batman? Batman? Batman?" over and over, and then: "Bruce?"

He sounds sincerely worried and upset. Bruce tries dismissive hand-waving, but he's coughing too hard. It's so humiliating. What's Superman supposed to think of him now.

"- ine … I'm fine …"

"I'm so sorry, I tried to warn you, but …"

" _Rrgh. Kchk._ "

Clark looks ashamed, then he's gone in a blur, Bruce can hear the tap, and suddenly Clark is back, shyly handing him a glass of water. He takes a big gulp from it, and his breathing slowly returns to normal. 

When Superman slings his arm around him and pulls him into a tight embrace, he takes it. Gratefully so. His head slinks against the other man's shoulder, and stays there. Next to him, close to him, Clark is positively glowing. He's cradling him in his arms, caressing him. He's so comfortable in his own skin, and he's so comfortable with Bruce's skin up close against his. Bruce is mainly exhausted; and not proud of himself. But he's not unhappy, and he's very satisfied, and he doesn't want to be anywhere else instead, like he often does. It feels peaceful. Nice.

"You've been very patient with me tonight," he grumbles after a while. "Don't think I don't know."

Clark turns his head to look at him, a twinkle in his eye. "What are you talking about? That was amazing!" He says, and his face is so painfully sincere it's almost funny.

Bruce smiles wryly. Of course he'd say that. He was a virgin.

"Is it always this great?" The man from Krypton asks him when he doesn't reply. He sounds wistful. And a little hopeful.

"Actually, it's – "

Bruce hesitates. The words "room for improvement" are right there on his lips, and it would be very much like him to say them, but they quickly vaporize because the look on Clark's face is heartbreaking. Plus, he has the distinct feeling that he is a much more complicated bed companion than the alien could ever be.

And they could probably work on those improvements together.

"Yes," he says softly, nuzzling his head against him. "Yes, it's always this great."

"Come home with me," Clark suddenly says, looking at him intently. Right. Boundless energy. "Spend the night with me, at my place, like … like people do. I can cook us dinner, and we can work on those restraints you've been talking about, I have a huge drawing board in my supply closet. That is, uh, if you're still interested in pursuing that …"

Bruce is tempted. Not only by the drawing board; by all of it. "You cook?"

"I'm a bachelor who lives alone without a butler, so – kind of," Clarks says humbly, "And by that, I mean I can … heat up a can."

"Using an oven?" Bruce asks, curious.

Clark grins at him. "No. Never used that thing; I'm storing my shoes in it. Oh, I do eggs as well. I mean, I can make them. My eggs are actually pretty good."

"That doesn't sound like much of a dinner."

"Then we'll make it breakfast." Clark squeezes him. "The sun comes up in a few hours, anyway." It's obvious that he doesn't want to let him go. Well, now he _can't_ say no. You'd have to be a soulless monster, a super-villain or criminally insane to intentionally make Superman sad.

Not that he really wants to say no, either. "Sure," he says. "Let's do that."

Clark smiles and kisses him again, a little more tenderly than two men like them should probably kiss, but Bruce lets himself get lost in it, anyway. His whole body is aching, but in a soft, sweet, subtle way. If he's lucky, he'll go home carrying bruises that are the exact shape and size of Superman's hand.


End file.
